"I remember!" said Mrs. Peyton, dreamily. "I remember. I did it myself."
"Did it yourself?" cried Margaret, aghast. Grace was silent.
"I threw the candle down. I had been looking in the glass, and I found a new wrinkle, a horrible one. I threw the candle down, and it fell on a roll of cotton wool. How it went! I can hear the sound now, and see the fire run—run!"
"I wouldn't talk about it any more," said Grace, quietly.
"I must. I must tell it all. She—Grace, there—found me; it had caught my bed, and the curtains were blazing. She carried me out of the room and down the stairs herself. What is she made of? She isn't so tall as I. Then—at the door—she set me down and told me to run, and I ran. We ran together, till the devil brought these things into my mind, and I sent her back to be burned up for my vanity."
"I wasn't burned up," said Grace, composedly; "and as you remarked just now, Mrs. Peyton, you have got well. Do you want to know what I think?"
"Yes, Grace—"
"I think—that the game was worth the candle!"